The Boy and the Begining
by aliengirlguy
Summary: a boy stumbles on a box of stories on day, then a boy discovers similarities between himself and those stories he reads. this leads to conclusions, then with a notion of no impossibles suddenly before him, it takes him from his small world and into something beyond anyone's expectations. There will be SLASH in this way, way later down the line.
1. Chapter 1

The Boy and the Beginning.

A/N: this is an AU, majorly, that will touch base on some cannon, but otherwise will go its own way. As usual, updates will be sporadic. My life is hectic. Sorry to those who were waiting for updates on my other fics. I kind of lost my steam for writing for a bit, this is to get me back into the swing of things. Oh yes, if there is a pairing in this one, it will be slash, though at a much later, 16 year old HP. The rating is just to cover my hiney in case of foul language or something.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to its creator, mentions of the other fairy tales and stories that the character reads in the fic are the properties of those who created them.

Chapter 1: The Boy and the Box.

Harry had always thought he as abnormal, a freak, just as his family kept insisting upon for as long as he could remember. Then one day, he came across a box sitting out in front of a driveway of one of the neighbours. Inside were a small pile of books, dog eared, and smelling faintly musty.

Harry was, by nature, a quiet, unassuming child, with a practical streak a mile wide, and several decades beyond most adults one could name.

Growing in a cupboard, and staying ahead of starvation, his relatives more cruel whims, would do for you.

By the time he was 5, he had learned to be as quiet and scarce as a shadow. He learned to read peoples moods to best avoid punishments, and had a rather decent hand at scavenging and nicking from other peoples window sills and yards then was healthy for one hos age. By the time he was 6, primary school had become another area that he had traversed with finely honed survival skills, and had long learned to never advertise anything that would single him out amongst the other children. He took being a non-entity as a matter of course, and was often proud, on occasion, when an adult that did, on the rare occasion, notice him, seem baffled by his presence when he had been around them for years at most in some cases.

The box was larger and more cumbersome then his usual marks. He was not a greedy boy,, usually only taking the odd useful knick-knack, like a skipping rope as a belt for the latest oversized hand me down that occasionally made its way to him from his cousin or uncle, the oldest grimiest winter gear, a cooling pie, or a piece of meat from an untended BBQ or a garden of tomatoes. They were all unnoticeable, relatively, unwanted, an easy to hide in his cupboard.

The box was a prize though, that he felt worth the risk of being caught smuggling them into his cupboard.

Harry was not some super genius; however, he had picked up reading and some basic math out of necessity when he had been assigned the cooking once deemed enough to be coordinated to handle a stool and the cooking implements. He did, however, know the value of books. He remembered a program on the telly one evening that the Dursley's had not been aware that he was watching, about how education was important. The best way to learn things, he had reasoned from his experiences with school, was from books.

Harry wanted a future away from the Dursley's someday, and knew that without a good education he would not be able to escape them.

Therefore, Harry reasoned, it was only practical to take any book he saw unattended, and here was a whole box of them!

Luck was on the small boy's side for once and he managed to get the slightly awkward an heft bundle home without anyone noticing, and into his cupboard, stuffing it behind some old boxes of cleaning materials.

Harry waited until later that evening to explore his find and when he did, he was somewhat baffled at first, upon what he was reading.

Another thing about the little boy that was singularly different, and indeed his entire family really, was that there was that the adult Dursleys absolutely abhorred anything unnatural being mentioned. As a result, while harry himself was deemed unnatural, it was never explained why, and other unnatural things were never mentioned or explained. As a result, things that were a common theme in many children's lives such as fairy tales, myths, and legends, even the tooth fairy, were never mentioned in the Dursley household. The Dursleys also made sure that the teachers of the boys never talked about unnatural things that were usually found in children story books, stating religious reasons. Since Vernon had donated a fair bit to the school, and the school was of the most unimaginative. Real world as it could get type of school, they had agreed.

So when Harry picked up the book at the very top, a slightly large, dog eared book filled with fairy tales, he was amazed, once he got over his bafflement, at the sheer rich unnaturalness he was faced with in the words of the book. All the others were as odd as the nest. Tales of adventure in mysterious countries, folktales of fantastical creatures, and stories of mighty heroes, gods, and all sorts of forbidden subject that the boy had not realized existed until that moment.

Harry enjoyed the stories, though he knew they were fiction, as they passed the time, but he couldn't understand exactly how this related to knowledge of the world. He understood fiction, yes, but he had read fictional stories about romance and crime mysteries and such, filched from his relatives recycle bin, to understand that they were at least based on some sort of truth that could be recognized in the real world. After all, there was romance in the real world, he had seen it between Petunia and Vernon sometimes and the rest of his neighbours, he also knew that there was crime and people who solved them from newspapers and the news and such. So how did his new stories reflect things in the world?

He had yet to see dragons or dwarves that mined diamonds or mad hatters drinking tea with mice and hares.

He was rather stumped about it all, despite his enjoyment, then one day, when he had turned 8, things were put into a whole new perspective.

He had been running from his large cousin and his friend, having the misfortune to accidently be noticed by his cousin on the playground. Dudley and his cronies wee bored, and decided that a spot of harry hunting would liven things up tremendously.

Harry ran. He was nimble and rather quick, but made the bad mistake again of running into a dead end between two buildings on the grounds. As he ran towards the dumpster, panicked at his situation, knowing he was in for a world of pain, then a world of pain again should his teachers discover his beat up form and phone the Dursleys, when he thought, suddenly, of his favorite story, Peter Pan, and wished dearly in that moment, that he could just fly way into the sky and hide in the clouds where no one would reach him.

That's when a sudden rushing sensation filled him, a feeling of intense, though not uncomfortable warmth and weightlessness filled him, and then the world around him tilted.

Harry wasn't there to see his confused cousin and posse as they rounded the corner, finding nothing but a lone dumpster and walls.

Ooo ooo ooo

When Harry regained his equilibrium, he was treated to the terrifying sight that only the school pigeon were graced with.

Wisteria Primary school spread beneath him like a tiny toy set.

Only years of having the urge to scream beaten out of him kept from that very thing happening.

His clouds were trenched from the nearby clouds all around him, and he shivered in the wind.

It took him quite a while to calm down.

When he was calm enough for some coherent thought, he considered his situation.

He was hovering, quite high above his school. No machine of any kind was supporting him, just open air all around him, as if gravity had sort of half-forgotten him.

He applied his hard earned rationale to the situation.

He had been running, high on emotion and worry. Then suddenly, he was up in the air.

Then he remembered the wish he had before that strange, weird rushing warmth happened.

He had wanted to be up in the sky, like Peter Pan.

It suddenly clicked. An epiphany that would completely change everything for one boy.

His books! The fairy tales! The legends, the myths, etc. they had talked about people that could fly! Peter Pan, though fictional, was a boy who could fly, at the characters most basic level. Harry, in this moment, at his most basic level, was a boy who was currently flying. Well, hovering at the moment, but still up in the air.

That was it!

His stories actually did have an application in the real world. They applied ot him! To freaks like him!

That was it!

He knew he was different from other boys, and before, where he would be ashamed and accepting of a lonely existence, shunned by all the more worthy and normal people.

Harry was a freak, an abnormal entity in a world filed with normal people and things. The fantasy stories he had read were filled with things that were abnormal things and entities that were not part of the normal world. Therefore, that must mean they talked about, in there most basic level, about things that must be about Harry. Peter Pan could fly, so could Harry.

He had another thought: could Harry do other things that were mentioned in the stories?

For the first time ever, Harry felt a strong wave of excited expectation, glee and a purpose that, while close to making a life for himself from the Dursleys in getting a good education, then a job, this was of a greater purpose. To learn things that would separate him, and give him power to never have to depend upon the Dursleys ever again.

To never be a part of this unaccepting normal world.

Ooo ooo ooo

Harry used his time floating among the clouds to figure out what he was going to do. He was a child who knew the values of setting goals and having plans. While he didn't have a really detailed one yet, just a sure notion of something to do, he decided that his first goal was figuring out how to get down.

It took him an hour, fits and starts, and near plummets, to figure out that this flying, while definitely harder than Peter made it seem, was all about wanting to be in a particular place or direction, at the same time, wanting it to happen at a particular speed. That last part he had learned the hard way after nearly crashing into the school roof.

By the time he had touched ground, he was exhausted and the sun was almost down.

He groaned and hoped no one had called the Dursleys about him missing.

He was lucky.

They had a substitute that day, and Harry's unobtrusive nature had made it so the woman didn't remember he was even a part of the class. Further luck was with him, in that the Dursleys didn't care that he was missing, so long as he was home to do chores, and that evening, he had been excused from cooking, as the Dursleys were invited to a dinner party for his uncles business, leaving Harry locked in his cupboard for the evening as soon as he walked into the door.

He used this boon of quiet to fine tune his thoughts.

He was very tired. He figured that whatever it was, magic he supposed, from seeing it mentioned so much in the books, obviously needed some work. He reasoned it was like an unused muscle, something he had read about in a health book once, that needed practice to become stronger.

Since flying was the first thing he had done, and practical for the forming plan in his young mind, he decided that he would work on this flying until he would no longer be as tired as he was, and good do it with the same ease as Peter, or as close to it anyway.

Nodding to himself, he settled into a deep sleep.

Ooo ooo ooo

Review and tell me what you think.


	2. The Boy and his Departure

The Boy and the Beginning.

A/N: I will take requests for elements from legends, fairy tales, folk tales and such, though I may not use it all. Just the bits that strike me as being a good bit for the fic. No manga or comic books. This will also be the only time that I mention a Sci-Fi movie for the moment.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to its creator, mentions of the other fairy tales and stories that the character reads in the fic are the properties of those who created them. Star wars is the property of George Lucas.

Story Lexicon so far:

Normals: non-magical people and things notioned/made by them.

Rush/Rushing: using magic.

Lifting: levitating/telekinesis of objects

Abnormals: beings or things that is magical.

Chapter 2: The Boy and his Departure.

Harry had once heard a phrase spoken by the normals.

Taking baby steps.

Harry took good advice to heart, no matter the origin. Harry knew that he had been lucky, possibly due to the adrenaline high and his wild emotions at the time, which had kept him from becoming a Harry pancake on the school grounds.

Harry had discovered that the flying was proving very hard indeed. His stories gave no instructions. They were fiction after all, so the boy had used his experiences with the first time, but applied them in a safer setting. In this case, his practice area was a small patch of overgrown field that was sandwiched between Wisteria Walk and Privet drive. More a vacant lot really, but it had an old rusted picnic table and so much overgrowth, that no one could see inside. This was the perfect cover for a boy attempting something decidedly unnatural in such a highly congested normal environment.

It had been a week since his flying experience and epiphany. He had already started separating himself from the rest of his surroundings, not hard to do really, given how he was treated. He had begun to mentally refer to the rest of humanity and its environments as normal and normal world. The boy thought this was a rather practical category, and made it easier to deal with his family.

In the meanwhile, his flying.

He had started off with merely trying to lift off the ground. He had found, with a calmer emotional state, it was harder to call up the Rush, the feeling he got just before he flew. He figured that he should have his own word to use, as he felt that using the word magic was not conductive to keeping his abilities secret. If there was one thing he had learned from the stories so far, and his relatives, upon looking back on he odd incident or to in his past, it was that the Normals did not tolerate abnormal-ness all that well. Calling it something like magic, especially should it accidently slip his lips somehow, no matter how unlikely, would be inviting trouble. He had seen that documentary on the telly about the Salem Witch Trials. It had been the only program that the Dursleys had not minded him watching, despite him not understanding what a witch was really at the time, other than a Halloween decoration (something the Dursleys didn't celebrate). No, he rather fancied his safer word, and frankly better description of what he felt when he used his abilities, his Rush.

The rush, despite his terminology, was rather reluctant and sluggish at first, coming and fits and starts when it did, leaving him terribly tired afterwards. Harry had learned to limit his practice times so he was not too tired for returning to number four and his chores for the evening.

After two weeks of solid practice, he had managed to hover about a few feet off the ground and move in several directions horizontally without tiring.

He graduated after that to the picnic table.

This lead to more bruises then he would have liked, but he persevered. The jumping, he found, seemed to help with taking off, and he mastered this much more quickly.

By the time he had made it to leaping from trees onto his neighbours roofs and then from roof to roof, it was nearing the end of winter and heading into the first blush of spring.

During this time, he had mastered maneuvering in mid-air, and was no longer growing tired at all. Sometimes, he occasionally even hovering in the air in his tiny cupboard as he awoke from sleep or was engrossed in a book or thought.

It was during one of his thought sessions, reclining on air in his little lot in mid-April, that he began to wonder if he could make other things then himself fly. He had read stories of a few mythical heroes and creatures being able to do this.

He bit his lip thoughtfully. He was a little nervous, what if it didn't work?

Still, he decided to try. He looked down at the book on his chest. It was a book about the 12 labours of Hercules.

He concentred, much like he did for the first times he flew (no more instinctive with all the time he put in) and thought of his rush, this time reaching out to the book on his chest.

Nothing happened at first.

He frowned. Then he nearly smacked himself, of course!

He thought of the book hovering up a foot or so.

This time, there was a wobble, a brief flutter of paper.

He focused harder, wanting it to happen with as much of his being as he could.

The book wobbled again, until it rose finally, hesitantly off his chest, before flopping back down when Harry lost his concentration in his surprise and joy. He had done it!

He found that the smaller the object was to his own person, the easier it was to master at moving. He had found that lifting, as he called it, was another exercise that took time to master. He had a problem though when it came to anything bigger and heavier then him. It was a frustrating barrier, though he wasn't to concern over it, after all, lifting small items was more useful, as his scavenging and nicking's were usually small items.

One day, as he wandered into town, he noticed that he local movie heater was showing a golden reshow of Star Wars trilogy.

Harry of course, had never even heard of the movies really, but he was intrigued non-the less, especially when he noticed the tall furry creature with the weapons belt that reminded him of the story of the sasquatch he had read in his local legends of Canada book from the box.

Harry lifted a bit of money from a few passersby, and paid for a ticket to see all three, thankful that his relatives were away for the entire day, giving him ample opportunity to watch he films.

Harry discovered the genre called science fiction that day. Though it was not really the same as his fantasy stories, and alien worlds were not really a concern of his, he had found that Luke Skywalker's lessons in the force, from the second movie, were something similar to what he faced trying to use his rush lifting things.

A scene in particular caught his attention. It was with the tiny creature known as Yoda. Lecturing a rather put out Luke about how using the force was more about the mind than anything related to the crude mater of the physical, proving this point by lifting the man's fighter from the swamp (1).

After the rather entertaining adventure at the theatre, he considered the scene he had watched.

He had to admit that he was rather encumbered the notions that the bigger something was, the harder it was going to be to lift. It was an entirely sane thought, a Normal notion. And therein lay Harry's problem. He figured that he would have to face and let go a lot of misconceptions that he had learned through being part of the Normal's world. Such as the notion of heaviness; after all, didn't Hercules lift monsters over his head? Hell, he an Atlas both had held the very sky! And that was a big expanse (despite it not being solid, Harry figured that the ancient Greeks didn't know about atmospheres and such back then). If Hercules and Atlas could defy the notions of the physical through sheer muscle, couldn't he do it with his Rush?

With this new mentality, determinedly went into the garage early the next morning, and practiced trying to lift the heavy lawn mower he was expected to drag outside to begin the crass cutting.

It took him practice, letting go of the ingrained notions of weight was a tricky thing indeed, but after another few weeks, he had graduated to lifting his uncles car up and down in the garage.

Harry was pleased with his progress, and if his relatives didn't notice the fat that he disappeared a little too quickly, or that there was certain verve in his chores, they never bothered enough to remember.

Ooo ooo ooo

Spring was already in full swing, with the barest hints of summer filing privet Dr. with scent of car soap, hyacinth, and BQQ's. Harry felt certain expectancy, a sense of something in the wind, which seemed to whisper to him that it was finally time.

By this time, Harry had already remembered the books from the box to the point were leaving them on the door step of a church was not so difficult. His preparations were already done and all that was left was to pick a direction.

Ooo ooo ooo

It was a pleasant evening in late May when a green eyed boy, nearly invisible to the quiet, normal neighbourhood, disappeared from a long forgotten over grown lot with a rusted pick nick table, and soon just as forgotten as it was by the people. After all, they were an ordinary, normal little neighbourhood were nothing extraordinary such as boys disappearing up into thin air ever happens.

Meanwhile, in an old headmasters office of a school, a bird on a golden perch watched, with the stars peeking through the arched tower window, and the distant snores of said Headmaster from his quarters next door; as a selection of whirling, glowing trinkets or mysterious purpose sputtered, then went dead forever.

Ooo ooo ooo

An: I know the chaps are short and time have progressed somewhat fast, but I wanted to get into the journey part of this fic.

Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back.


	3. The Boy and the Right Size

The Boy and the Beginning.

A/N: a few locations are real, one or two are not.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to its creator, mentions of the other fairy tales and stories that the character reads in the fic are the properties of those who created them.

Story Lexicon so far:

Normals: non-magical people and things notioned/made by them.

Rush/Rushing: using magic.

Lifting: levitating/telekinesis of objects

Abnormals: beings or things that is magical.

Chapter 3: The Boy and the Right Size

Harry had found a recurring theme within many of the fairy tales he had read in his box stories. This theme was of the heroic journey.

Basically, a young so and so sets out to make something of themselves, or to rescue or obtain such and such. Harry was not really interested in getting some princess or becoming rich or ruling over a group of people. However, he rather liked the idea of journeying though, and taking on the present challenges as they arose. The independent, aimless wanderer characters much appealed to him.

He knew being a small boy in scruffy cloths no better than rags would not do him well in his wanderings through the Normal's world. The last thing he needed was to be carted off by local authorities, or attracting attentions that were of the negative sort should he use his abnormal-ness.

As such, he spent his daylight hours resting under bushes or on top of the occasional barn or farm house that dotted the land as he flew further and further east away from cities and avoiding bustling towns.

At night time, the sky became rich with the smell of something other than Normal's pollution. Hints of ozone, storms arrival for the next day (which he sheltered wherever he could) and the scents of growing things was stronger and wilder, and seemed, well, more natural than anything. Harry rather approved of this, liking the sting of air that made his young lungs expand. He felt more alive than he ever had before, despite the trials that faced him along his travels.

Air not staled by the smell of his own sweat, dusty and tasting of himself and cleaning products nad dead spiders.

Air without the tangling heat of overripe summer, dying grass and lawn mower exhaust.

Air that was just perfectly, stunningly free!

Ooo ooo ooo

It was one week into his journey, and Harry had ventured onto his first challenge.

This, of course, centred on the basic necessities of life.

Harry would often make pit stops outside the occasional village or campsite, remaining carefully out of sight, often lifting food from the inattentive Normal. Harry also hung out on the tops of roofs above grocery stores and lifting the occasional bag of bread or canned good. Sensible foods that were relatively small and could be eaten with little preparation and stored snuggly within the back pack he had stolen from Dudley's bedroom one evening.

He knew though, that if he headed into deeper wilderness, he would have to forage at some point. He knew a few things about edible plants from what he had scavenged in Privet Dr. and he figured that he could just as easily lift a fish from a river, or a rabbit from a bush, as he did a can of soup from a grocer's bag. Still, he reasoned, that he needed better information. Not to mention that he only knew how to prepare fish and not any other form of game.

The warm months were all well and good, but he knew that when winter hit, he would be in definite trouble. He needed to acquire more skills.

He decided that a visit to a library or bookstore would be in order. He needed to get books on survival.

His second problem was shelter.

He knew from his experiences so far that roofs, bushes and trees were obviously not going to cut it. He found he rather liked the height and coverage from trees. He had a rolled up hammock that he had taken from number twelve's garbage can and repaired, as well as a rolled up blanket from a small towns church donation box with a few sweaters. This was not going to do forever, and he knew it. Trees were impractical bed places in the winter.

The third problem was cloths. If he was going to go into an actual Normal's building like a store or a library, he would need to look less like the dirty raga muffin that cleans his cloths in the occasional stream, falling apart and to big, to something that didn't scream runaway. He was 8 years old, going on 9 after all. He was also to skinny and short to even look his proper age. No, that would not do at all. It chaffed, that he still depended on something from the Normals, though he supposed that complete seclusion might be a bit of a pipe dream at the moment. He was just too small and ignorant yet in the ways of this new life and its ways of survival.

Harry reflected that he had only so much space on him. He couldn't always carry around clean cloths all the time. He only had enough room for one extra set of cloths and those sweaters as it is. Then there was the necessity of more gear for the cold weather. His trainers were falling apart as it is.

Harry paced floated somewhere above a bit of farm area between Salfords and Tonbridge, (having had the sense to acquire a map before he left).

He muttered to himself, ideally crunching on an apple as he pondered his conundrum.

He needed those survival books to better handle himself in the world. He needed to have cloths that didn't make him look suspicious when going into said buildings for cloths. But he had little space on him for such things that couldn't be used often enough where they would get ruined anyway. Finding and obtaining the cloths wouldn't be a problem of course, just storage.

Then suddenly, the solution to his problem becomes suddenly clear.

Obviously flying and lifting wasn't the only thing his Rush was capable of doing. His stories often spoke of great big things that had been stored inside tiny little things that would be perfect size for carrying on his person.

He remembered the story of 'A Sprig of Rosemary' where a maiden had received 3 nuts, one each from the sun, moon and wind. They had held clothing that appeared when the huts were cracked open, and the maiden had used it to bribe the bride of her errant love interest who had lost all memory of her. There was another similar story about another girl trying to catch her man and had used small objects to hold what must have been rather expensive and over-stuffy ball gowns. (1)

He reasoned that the tiny storage spaces must have contained clothing and such that had been shrunken down for easy storage. It was perfect for him, though he wasn't planning on whipping out any dresses any time soon to get some rich bloke to marry him, it still was a useful bit of fiction that lead him to a solution.

Shrinking and the obvious to follow necessity of enlarging it back to normal or even to something bigger was the thing he would take a lot of practice, which was for sure.

Luckily, he still had a few months left of good weather. He could go as he was, and practice during some secluded spot for an evening or two, rest, and then travel a bit and repeat the process, breaking it up with lifting food and such.

Harry nodded his head, rather pleased with his reasoning.

Ooo ooo ooo

Harry eventually settled into a thicket about a mile between a small village called Goldspawn, and a spattering of farms. A close grouping of oaks became his temporary home for the next 3 days as he set up camp. Here would be the first in a long line of similar stops that was to be his new training for the next few weeks or maybe months. He just hoped that it didn't take him long to figure out how to do (2).

He started on stone first, usually about the size of his hand. He figured that he should first try to figure out how to make things small first, before he worried about going in the other direction.

This was indeed harder then he realized. He at first, didn't go anywhere, and often ended up deforming, and sometimes outright exploding his rocks, which left him frustrated and covered in cuts. He quickly learned to put a bit of distance and cover between himself and his experiments.

It was on the outskirts of Cranbrook (3), by a lovely bit of pond under a large willow, that harry finally realized were he had gone wrong. He was still caught up in the notions of Normals, this time in regards to size and change. He realized that instead of imaging the rock to shrink, or imagining it as a smaller rock, he had to simply acknowledge that the rock merely existed at its current size at his whim. He had to simply believe that the rock could be any size at all and want it to be whatever he wanted it to be.

This was a novel change of perception again, and Harry patted himself on the back for figuring it out all on his own without the aid of a movie this time.

This time when he looked at the rock he merely desired it to be smaller and knew that it was in fact the size that he wanted. His Rush filled him with warmth and tingles and sure enough, after a brief wobble, the pink and grey stone sitting before him shrank to the size of a pebble.

The same trick he figured out for shrinking was applied to enlarging. Sizing, as he came to call it, was ridiculously easy, once he mastered the thought, feel and will of it. When he practiced for the first time on one of his valuable sweaters, the material sat, small and tiny in his palm, to small for even a Barbie doll.

He had fun experimenting with the sweater, and found that enlarging it to the size of a tent would definitely come in handy.

Pleased with himself, he made a brief stopover in Cranbrook to lift a few decent things from a local clothing shop, and stayed within the modest town, ducking away at night time to return to his willow tree and pond.

He stayed there for a week or so, the longest he had stayed in anyone place really. With his new cloths, and his pack hidden in the willow tree out of sight, Harry looked like any normal boy, even if his hair was a bit wilder than other boy's hair. He was careful to not be on the streets during school time though, so as not to attract attention.

As he studied his books in the library, discreetly pocketing a few that looked helpful, he also took the time in playing tourist, a novel experience that he had never had. The Dursleys vacationed, but he was never allowed to go. He decided to take advantage of this opportunity.

It was as he was taking a lunch break, studying the various water and wind mills that clustered near the river Bout, rather liking the structures, that his eyes drifted by a small shop.

In the shop's window were a number of various quaint bird houses, many in the shape of mills.

Harry looked at them and was reminded of a story.

This fairy tale was of a prince that decided to observe a battle for ruler-ship amongst the animals. During this battle, there were only two contestants left, a snake and a bird. The snake, ready to strike, was foiled by the watching prince when lopped its head off. In gratitude, he was gifted by the bird king with a bundle which contains a surprise. He was commanded not to open this gift until he was sin a place he wanted to be. After a bit of a kerfuffle with an irate giant, the man pulled out a castle from within the bag, and in it was a maiden that he married, to which they then both lived in the castle together (4).

Harry smiled. While again, the whole maiden thing was somewhat useless, beyond the notion that people could probably be shrunk, just like to him, and a castle was a bit much, certainly, but it occurred to him that he now had a solution to his shelter problem as well.

Ooo ooo ooo

A/N: review and let me know what you think.

1: 'A Sprig of Rosemary' is a Spanish fairy tale collected by Dr. D. Francisco de S. Maspons y Labros in _Cuentos Populars Catalans_. Andrew Lang included it in _The Pink Fairy Book_.

2: Goldspawn is made up from my head.

3: **Cranbrook** is a small town in Kent in South East England.

4: 'The Battle of the Birds' is a Scottish fairy tale collected by John Francis Campbell in his _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_.


	4. The Boy and his First Meeting

The Boy and the Beginning.

A/N: Just because somebody asked me a bit ago, yes, eventually, way, way into the future there will be slash.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to its creator, mentions of the other fairy tales and stories that the character reads in the fic are the properties of those who created them.

Story Lexicon so far:

Normals: non-magical people and things notioned/made by them.

Rush/Rushing: using magic.

Lifting: levitating/telekinesis of objects

Abnormals: beings or things that is magical.

Sizing/sized: shrinking and enlarging.

Chapter 4: The Boy and his First Meeting

Harry had decided to follow a river this time, instead of aimlessly soaring in whatever direction that caught his whim (or hasty escape of the occasional plane). The current river he was following soon joined with other rivers, and the sent on the air became more brackish, with a hint of brine. It wasn't until he consulted his map, after spying the sign of an approaching town dubbed Wick that he realized he was rather close to the English Channel.

Wick was a small town, with a population of only about 7000-8000 people or so. It was also one of two burghs within the county of Caithness, of which Wick was the county town. The town straddled the River Wick and extends along both sides of Wick Bay. (1)

The place had an air of age about it, the buildings stone, and bore the imprint of times before automobiles and such could still be remembered in the old walls and streets of the place, despite being on a main hwy.

There was a railway line and an airport as well, and Harry amused himself with hiding in a tree outside the airfield and watching the planes, very glad that he could fly. Depending on machines to escape the hold of gravity and not ones will for a time, seemed highly unpractical to Harry now, after flying for so long.

After that little amusement, Harry pulled out a plastic peanut butter jar from his backpack and shook the contents inside consideringly. Inside it was half full of tiny, thumb sized clothing items.

It had been a month since Harry had started sizing. It took care of a lot of problems and opened up a lot of room in his pack.

Harry had wandered into the occasional toy store a time or two, lifting doll cloths and other little knickknacks. The sizing of these into larger, more usable items left Harry with a wider range of sources amongst the normals' communities for those times he ventured into towns.

His selected cloths sized into something that would fit him after a quick wash with a hose in a back lawn that was not being noticed, and he was off to the Wick Carnegie Library to scavenge some more books to size and add to his growing collection of thumbnail sized books stored in a small bamboo box with a copper clasp that he had taken a liking to one day and taken.

Harry spent a few days around Wick, visiting a heritage museum, lingering on the roofs of local bars, and generally enjoying himself. As he broadened his knowledge base and acquired supplies; Harry's favorite place by far was looking out over the stunning blue water of the sea, perched atop the remains of the Castle of Old Wick, or as the locals refer to it, the Old Man of Wick.

Harry found the wide expanse of water to be breath taking, and he rather wondered how long it would take him to cross it to the next land mass which was, according to his map, was either France or Belgium, depending on his whims.

He considered the expanse before him. He figured that if a Normal could swim the English Channel, and birds could fly the English Channel, then he too could cross, even if the idea was a bit nerve wracking; he had never crossed such a large expanse without some sort of handy landing spot.

Finally, after eyeing the occasional plane, he decided that he would make his usual night time travel, but keep high up and in the clouds. Lucky for him, he smelled a storm that would make its way inland in the next few days. This would be perfect cover for his flight from the Normals.

He floated down to the ground and walked back to the library, figuring that it would be open once he arrived there, and decided to see if he could find a map of France. Petunia and Mrs. Number 2 always sighed about it over the fence during their many gabfests, maybe it would be interesting.

Ooo ooo ooo

Harry had not expected the storm to move in so quickly. Perhaps it was close range to the sea, or perhaps an unexpected wind change, who knew? But Harry knew he was in trouble when he was nearly blown into the churning waters nearly 3 quarters of the way to the shores of his first ever out of country visit, in this case France.

He was getting battered by the gale force winds, and he had long been soaked to the bone in chilly rain. Harry would later be grateful that he had taken the precaution in covering his backpack in the water proof tarp he had snitched from a boater at Wick.

Through the downpour, the flying boy struggled to grimly maintain his focus; he needed to get to land. A tree, a bush, hell, even a rock would be welcome at this point.

Harry sobbed in relief when a dark expanse of cliffs reared out of the gloom before his tired eyes.

Harry was tired and cold; he was sinking in fits and starts, for the first time since he had mastered flying, having a hard time maintaining his focus.

A glimmer of…well, he didn't know what it was really that caught his attention, put it was like a beacon of safety for the tired child. He gathered the last of his strength and shot towards the glimmer in the rock face.

This source was a tiny cave opening with a barely there jutting outcropping, that would have otherwise gone unnoticed but for whatever quality about it drew the boys attention.

He shot into the opening and tumbled to the firm, stony ground with a tired sigh, slightly winded, but relieved beyond measure that he had actually made it.

Harry was jarred out of his relief, however, when a voice declared in the gloom.

"Well, that's something you don't see every day, boys shooting into ones vacation homes like they had a cannon in their arse pockets."

Harry achingly scrambled to his feet, and crouched defensibly as a small squat figure became clearer previously unnoticed lanterns suddenly sprung to life, filling the cave with warm light.

Harry stared, he couldn't help it.

The stranger was small, smaller than him even, though not a child. He was rather grizzled, and looked rather old and sour. It was the olive green skin and the large, sharply pointed ears with tufts of grey, wiry hair between them that arrested his stunned amazement.

The stranger was also dressed in a night shirt, holding another lantern in gnarly clawed hands.

"What's the matter boy? You look as though you have never seen a Goblin before."

Harry got over his shock quickly enough and considered the goblin.

He knew that things in the fantasies he read could be applied to him because he was an Abnormal. It never occurred to him, he admitted, that the creatures actually mentioned in the tales could be potentially nonfictional. Still, it seemed somewhat logical to admit that perhaps more than the happenings in the fictions, and possibly some of the characters themselves might have some basis in truth.

That meant that this goblin, though looking slightly different then some of the illustrations in some of the books he read, was a goblin, and therefore an Abnormal to.

Frankly, he knew it would be impossible for him to be the only Abnormal in the entire world, he had just never meant any before, and being a solitary sort of boy, never thought to seek any out, since he had been doing quite well for himself since discovery of his status.

There was also another conclusion to be drawn from this goblin. If the goblin was an Abnormal, and Harry, who were definitely different then the goblin, an Abnormal, then that meant that there were potentially many different varieties of Abnormals out in the world.

So what was he then? He figured he wasn't any garden variety human at least.

Harry finally mentally shook himself from the conundrum. Whatever his origins or species, it made little difference really, he would still be living as he did now, and he would still be the same Harry that he was fighting his way through the storm.

The only problem now lay in whether this face to face with other Abnormals would lead to complications.

Said problems that he was not keen in being directed towards him.

What if Abnormals were organized enough to not be too keen on their children wandering the planet without parental guidance?

He knew, despite his own experiences, that Normals in general were very particular about the safety of children in general, and he had no evidence that the rules that applied to children of Normals wouldn't apply to Abnormals.

The Goblin was eyeing him suspiciously now, his face growing sourer if possible.

Harry quickly scrambled for a viable lie.

"I am sorry for disturbing you sir, I was caught outside on my way to my grandmother's house that doesn't live to far from here, and was caught by the storm. My vision is not the best you see," harry pointed to his glasses, "and I stumbled and fell off a cliff and landed on a ledge into some bushes," Harrys bedraggled appearance would hopefully back this up, "then I was blown by a gust of wind into your fine cave, I am sorry for intruding sir, I could try to climb out and returned to-" (2).

"No, I'm not about to send some scrawny runt out into the storm to get blown into the sea next. Consider yourself lucky that the wind blew you into a cave with a goblin with a decent disposition and not the wretched waves," the goblin interrupted, "now follow me and I will show you a place you can stay until the storm passes then I will see you as far as your grandmother's property."

Harry was lead down a winding tunnel that grew steadily shorter, though more ornate, with carvings of what looked like goblin battles.

Harry though, was rather fascinated by the lanterns.

The goblin would either light or extinguish a torch with a wave of his hand, and some occasional muttering under his breath that he assumed was the beings own mother tongue.

A few of the stories he read talked of enchanted fires, but it didn't really register until the moment that he saw it in action.

Now that would be handy, but was it something that was akin to the torches and lanterns, much like other magical objects he had read about in stories, or was is flame created by the goblin used on the torches and lanterns?

Harry decided to figure it out later, at the moment he turned his attention back to his host.

He was lead to a small stone room with a round wooden door embedded in the opening, painted a dull greyish colour.

The door was opened to reveal a small, rather lush sitting room done in rich shades of blues, golds, and silvers. It reminded him vaguely of a Victorian siting room that he had seen in a magazine once, though the furniture was smaller, obviously goblin size.

Harry took a seat on one of the chairs and accepted the grudging tea that was offered. The goblin only stated a stern "sit and remain quiet" before picking up a book from a small pile by his chair and returning to what he was reading with a grunt and a sip of some amber coloured liquid that smoked vaguely.

Harry took in the room, and had to say, it was cozy, despite the owner being less than warm. But then again, he had, quite literally, dropped in on him uninvited; not that it was the young boys fault of course.

Harry eyed the books with interest. Having an actual book that belonged to an abnormal, potentially written by another abnormal, without the question marks of abnormal-ness being interpreted from the views of Normal writers, would be quite useful.

But then again, this was another abnormal. Harry had read fairy tales about characters that steal from powerful people and creatures. Would stealing from a goblin have a similar consequence? After all, he was too young to be thinking about giving up his first born or being cursed as a consequence.

Harry continued to eye the books thoughtfully, mulling over the possibilities.

The goblin, at some point, while Harry was deep in thought, looked at the boy over the top of his book.

He mentally snorted. The boy was obviously not going to grandma's house and back. He had the well-worn look of one who had been on the road for a while. His cloths and muggle backpack were worn and the colors were faded. The boy himself was lean and surprisingly pale for one who must have been out doors for quite some time. His hair was a shaggy wild mop of dark hair that was tangled and gave the boy a rather untamed look, already past his shoulders. No mother or father with scissors in hand had touched that boys head in a while.

"I am Ragnorock," the goblin finally introduced himself reluctantly.

The boy turned his gaze from the pile of books by the goblins feet and gave a shy smile and said "my names Harry, sir."

Harry had added the last bit as he figured this was the type to have respectful connotations. Harry had always had excellent instincts in how to be around adults and avoid the least way to anger them.

Ragnorock noted the boys eyes shifting to his book stack again with a certain grudging amusement, faint though it was. At least the boy displayed some sense. The boy had been complexly oblivious to the various treasures he had strewn around the place like so much knick-knack (which it was) and there was no lust for gold or silver or jewel. A goblin, especially one so esteemed as him, should be able to sense a lover of treasure; after all, goblins were lovers of treasure, amongst other things like blood, gold, battle and trickery.

He could smell something else about the boy though, and that was a heavy air of potential. No mere human should have been able to brake though those goblin wards, whether purposefully or by accident (the latter of which he believed to be the case) and so young at that!

The goblin considered the boy, the boy and his thirst for knowledge.

"You are interested in the books I take it," the goblin grunted finally, his own book back infront of his face.

Harry started and straightened. So the old goblin had noticed? Well, now that the subject was brought up, Harry considered, is brain quickly weaving a potential plan.

"Yes sir, I rather enjoy stories, though will read anything that crosses my fancy, particularly if it is useful or give me ideas that ends up helping me in the future. Since you are…different from the other authors that I normally read; I am curious about what sort of books goblins would write about."

The goblin huffed and then after a moment of silence and page turning, the goblin stated suddenly,

"I'll give you one of my books, in return though, you have to promise me something."

Harry was immediately wary. He remembered stories of characters being tricked, or accepting stupidly, a deal with another character that usually ended up with the receiver of said deal regretting it at some point.

"What something would this be?" he asked cautiously.

The goblin gave another grudging point in the boys favor. At least he wasn't foolish to agree right away, as most children and some adults would be inclined to do when it came to something they desired.

"Nothing that will cost you your freedom, your morals, your body or anything from it; It will merely be a favor, a simple favor of anything that I require, though you are free to refuse if it infringes on any of the above stated exceptions. This favor will be paid at any time within your lifetime at my leisure."

Harry considered the offer carefully. It seemed reasonable, though, he wondered what exactly he could offer a goblin. The goblin clearly could rush all on his own, and harry was just a boy, with no obvious money (he certainly didn't look rich).

"What can I offer you? I don't really have anything…"

"You will," the goblin interrupted briskly, "now, grab a book from the pile before I change my mind, or don't accept at all, either way, it is no skin of my arse."

With that, he turned back to his book.

Harry bit his lip, but then, eventually, decided that whatever this something the goblin thought he would have was something that was far off, and there was no guarantee in that in the first place. Chances were he would probably never see the goblin ever again. The deal was reasonable, there was less risk on Harry's part in this then on the goblin, and he would be gaining a book from the deal that belonged to the first other abnormal that he had ever met.

"You have a deal."

Ragnorock smirked with satisfaction behind his book, unseen.

Ooo ooo ooo

The book Harry had chosen was much to Harry's horror, in a language that was not recognizable. It was filled with harsh jagged lines. Harry had not had much choice in what he had chosen. The man had merely growled for him to be quick about his choice, and Harry had complied nervously, and had grabbed the first book on the top of the pile, a dusty, slightly thick tome of faded dark leather with golden gilt page edges which, despite the age, still shone warmly in the candle light.

Harry had left the cave after the storm had past, feeling somewhat cheated but that he had learned something very valuable from the encounter. This taught him to be extra cautious, particularly with other abnormal, and he vowed to approach any others with a better head to potential craftiness in the near or far future.

Ooo ooo ooo

A/n: (1) Wick is an actual location in the UK. I got the info from Wikipedia.

(2) Harry takes inspiration for his unbelieved lie from the fairy tale, "Little Red Ridinghood."


End file.
